


The Adventure of the Spotted String Quartet

by Ad_Absurdum



Category: Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Gen, Humor, Parody
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-06-11
Updated: 2010-06-11
Packaged: 2017-10-10 01:36:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,773
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/93782
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ad_Absurdum/pseuds/Ad_Absurdum
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Another tale of silliness, outrageous disguises and villainy. But mostly silliness.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Adventure of the Spotted String Quartet

**Author's Note:**

> Again, some lines are stolen directly from ACD's works, but the majority is my doing. Written in 2005.

After the successful (although it is highly debatable if the word 'successful' can indeed be rightfully applied in this instance) conclusion of the case, that my faithful and longsuffering readers know as The Adventure of the Giant Rat of Sumatra, Mr Sherlock Holmes was immediately confronted with another problem of such paramount importance that even at this late date the identity of certain persons and places must remain obscured. It was also a mystery so intricate and so devilish a plan that I shudder at the very memory of it.

Or, perhaps, I should close the window. I think there is a decided draught in here.

Anyway, it was, as usual, March and Holmes and I were looking forward to an evening of pleasurable entertainment of musical nature at one of London's most famous concert halls (I can only disclose that its name had three words and began with the letter R). The musicians who were to play were an obscure Polish string quartet led by one Mr Dziewięćdziesiątkowski and they were to present a set of exotic tunes composed, apparently, during a walk around some pueblo. Holmes was always eager to seek out such new independent acts and his investigative skills no doubt aided him in this task. Frankly, I do not know how else he found such oddities.

The hour of the concert had been postponed, it seemed, and after fifteen-minute delay, the audience - save Holmes of course, as he maintained his usual Red Indian composure - was getting a trifle impatient. The moment the gathered public was about to turn violent, although still in properly restrained Victorian fashion, a man appeared on the stage and announced that the concert would take place at another date, the reason being the musicians' indisposition. The audience, after expressing their disappointment by throwing sundry objects of unsavoury nature in the general direction of the unfortunate announcer, started leaving the place. My friend, however, did not move from his seat. I began to suspect that he had fallen asleep, but suddenly he opened his sharp grey eyes and I could recognise in them the old gleam, which I saw so often and which told me that I would get little sleep that night.

'Come Watson,' he said, 'I sense some dark scheme here. The absence of one musician could be easily explained, but the absence of all four of them is not a mere coincidence.'

He sprang from his chair and led our way behind the stage; his keen mind already drooling at the prospect of a new case.

As we entered the backstage area, Holmes's hawk-like eyes immediately spotted a bulky, seven-feet-tall form of someone who appeared to be in charge of the place, as his commanding manner, a certain air of dignity and a leather whip indicated.

'Tell me, my good man,' Holmes approached that good man with an air of investigatory eagerness, 'do you know what happened to the musicians who were to perform tonight?'

'Eh? Why should I tell ya anything, Mr Nosey?'

I got the impression the gentleman's attitude towards us was far from friendly.

'My name is Sherlock Holmes,' my friend corrected him proudly.

The man sneered, rather unpleasantly, 'Oh yeah, and I'm Queen Victoria.'

I must admit I would have never suspected, so good was the disguise.

'Really?' Holmes, too, eyed him with interest, but then frowned. 'No, you're not. In fact, I can deduce with astounding accuracy that you are second-generation Spanish, addicted to Swiss chocolate, you smoke vanilla-scented tobacco, but are partial also to Turkish cigars and, even more, to Turkish bath.'

Holmes's eyes gleamed triumphantly, I looked on him with my usual mixture of unfeigned admiration and unmitigated amazement and the whip-equipped gentleman was utterly stupefied, which was of course natural reaction of those who were for the first time subjected to my friend's extraordinary powers of observation.

'Oh, Mr 'Olmes,' the man whispered in awe, 'it is really you. I read about you, sir, but I've never expected to see you in person. May I say what a great honour it is to me and I beg you, sir, allow me to apologise for my rudeness by throwing myself at your feet.'

Holmes smirked. 'Perhaps some other time, but I accept the apology.'

I was glad to see that he was not about to welcome such intimacies from anyone else but me. Such an open display of my friend's softer feelings towards my person always warmed my heart.

The man showed appropriate contrition and became a great deal more cooperative. We learned that no one had seen the quartet that day, they hadn't even been seen at their hotel, in short, they appeared to have... disappeared.

When we left the backstage area and subsequently the concert hall, Holmes had already sunk into his thoughts, concentrating on this curious case. As a result, he was not overly aware of his immediate surroundings and, therefore, collided with several lamp-posts in the street. He did not apologise to any of them, which I thought rather rude.

The hour was decidedly late and I thought we should call it a day and return to our cosy if a tad (euphemistically speaking) cluttered flat in Baker Street, but Holmes had other ideas.

'We must pursue this matter today, at once in fact. Come, Watson!'

I could never refuse such a heartfelt plea and so I followed my friend in what seemed to be the direction of a hansom cab, which was waiting further down the road and which, I supposed, was about to swiftly carry us into the night. Holmes may hold my deductive skills in utter contempt, but this time the inferences I drew were perfectly correct. We indeed reached the place where that worthy vehicle stood, got in, and after Holmes shouted the instructions to our driver – an amiable, though balding member of the London's working classes – we commenced our journey.

'We are going to look into the very heart of this singular affair.' Holmes gleefully rubbed his thin hands together.

I thought it was more a quadruple affair but, paradoxically, it also turned out to be undoubtedly singular, as the great detective accurately predicted. I sat for some time pondering the mathematics of this sentence, until the cab stopped in front of a large building, which I soon recognised as a hotel where the missing musicians were to stay. Holmes led our way inside and, having introduced himself to a man standing behind the reception desk, began his investigation. This time my friend's name elicited the correct response, namely total awe and exuberant willingness to help. We were informed that Mr Dziewięćdziesiątkowski Quartet had not been seen all day, but the explanation we were given was more astonishing than anything we had encountered so far. They were ill.

Upon hearing such extraordinary news I boldly stepped forward and asked if I might be of any assistance and, moreover, if I might see those poor suffering souls. This earned me a look that was as near to gratitude as I had ever seen from Holmes – an occurrence that for its rarity rendered me speechless for the whole three seconds - and then we were led upstairs, by a pretty and plump maid called Ivy, to the rooms of the unfortunate quartet.

The maid knocked on the door of the first violinist. There was no reply, but she bravely opened it only to close it a moment later; the look of utter horror was etched upon her chubby face. Holmes and I stood in the corridor, thus we did not see what alarmed her so, but we learned soon enough.

'It is a speckled band!'

Ivy took a shuddering breath and slid down to the floor.

Holmes frowned. 'I think that I've heard this one before.'

I was tortured by indecision: should I turn my medical attention first to Ivy, who lay prostrate upon a somewhat garishly coloured carpet (Holmes, with his characteristic attention to detail, said later that its pattern consisted of pink elephants, blue whales and tiny green medusae) or the patient behind that ill-omened door. Eventually, seeing that the maid was not in a dead faint but merely taking a nap (it really was quite late) I ventured into the room. Holmes, breathing rather heavily down my neck, stepped in behind me.

'What is it, Watson?' he asked in an excited whisper.

I bent over the bed and looked closely at the figure lying there. And then I knew.

'Chickenpox, my dear fellow.'

It was not often that I could surprise Holmes, but I relished every such occasion and one of them was now. The sweet moment was, however, very short-lived.

'Oh.' The expression of surprise upon my friend's features was quickly followed by disappointment. 'So, the maid meant...'

'Yes, I think the whole band is infected.'

'Well then, there's obviously no need for us here now. Let us go back to Baker Street.'

Holmes walked outside, stepped over snoring Ivy and I recognised in his resigned posture that his quick brilliant mind, having been denied a challenge, was yearning for something to do.

'I'm yearning for something to do,' spoke the detective's brilliant mind through that worthy man's lips.

'We can return here tomorrow,' I offered. 'In fact, I should like to check the condition of these gentlemen, for, sooner or later, they shall certainly need hospitalisation.'

Sherlock Holmes only shrugged, seemingly indifferent, but the gesture told me that since he hadn't anything better to do, he would accompany me.

The next day, at the ungodly early hour of 10 a.m., it was I who roused Holmes from his sleep. It did happen on occasion, although usually our roles were reversed and it was my friend who was wont to wake me up at all hours of the night. This tme however, I was eager to start the day and I looked forward to the opportunity which this case presented, that is, of finally employing my medical skills to treat something else beside my own paper cuts.

Two hours later, Holmes and I found ourselves at the hotel after travelling there separately, for my companion insisted on confirming his new hypothesis that people moving on their hands and knees, and, as such, being much below the eye level of a common pedestrian, went unnoticed by others and were therefore invisible. I simply took a hansom, having first observed that the hypothesis indeed appeared to be true, although not without flaws. The people, it seemed to me, endeavoured, rather desperately, not to notice my friend who was swiftly making his way on all fours towards the place where the chickenpox-stricken quartet lay. The exemplary British reserve, coupled perhaps with some small amount of unwillingness to annoy madmen, allowed Holmes to arrive unimpeded at the hotel and, additionally, at the conclusion that he was right. I anticipated some serious gloating on Holmes's part for the next few days.

Once inside the hotel, we proceeded without delay to the rooms of the unfortunate musicians. This time, having already been acquainted with the building, we could dispense with Ivy's help, which I thought quite a pity for she had a pair of very attractive ankles - a fact easily noticed when one was following her while ascending a set of stairs. I would have pointed out said fact to Holmes, except I was sure that his sole response – as always when I endeavoured to impress the decorative aspects of the fair sex on him - would be "I did not observe". Curiously, his powers of observation seemed to overlook the obvious and most important factors at times.

Upon knocking at the door remembered from yesterday's escapade and receiving no answer, we peeped inside through the keyhole – no one was there. We repeated the procedure of knocking and peeping into the rooms of the remaining three musicians with the result disappointingly similar in two cases, but when we decided to step inside the fourth chamber we were greeted by a spectacle beyond my wildest imaginings. The room contained four chickens, each sitting on an instrument: two on two violins, one on a viola and the last one on a cello.

I clutched my stethoscope in horror.

'Holmes, what is it?' I finally managed to choke out.

'It appears, my dear friend, that we shall have our little mystery after all.' His eyes gleamed with satisfaction while his lips curved in a menacing smile.

And then he began to make general mess of the room in search of some clues. He upturned every rug, sniffed the curtains and crawled under the bed, the chairs and the table. Eventually, he lifted every chicken and examined them minutely, one by one. The birds strove to protest (and rather vehemently too - pecking furiously and trying to fly away) however, such attempts were futile as everyone, who had ever been exposed to the great detective's hypnotic snake-like gaze, knew. I recall an occasion where he exercised full power of this gaze of his on some wretch who had the misfortune of being caught whilst attempting to steal a public lavatory (the reason for this escaped me then and puzzles me to this day, but who will plumb the machinations of a criminal mind?). On the aforementioned occasion, Holmes simply stared at the man, who was, to all appearances, paralysed by this, and gave him another of his lectures about The Stupidity of Stealing Anything in Broad Daylight. On reflection, however, I see that the paralysis might have been the effect of the unfortunate thief being handcuffed, gagged and held down by two strong constables.

Having satisfied himself as to the condition of those four rather well-fed examples of domestic fowl, my friend energetically walked outside, tugging me along.

'Well, Holmes. Have you found something?' asked I, eager to know what doubtless must have escaped me.

'Yes.'

'What?'

'Many things.'

'Like what?' I was beginning to see that my efforts at obtaining some information from him might be futile.

'Like clues.'

'You're not going to tell me anything, are you?'

'All in good time.'

Then he turned to me and smiled amiably, 'I promise, my friend, that you'll know all the facts in just a few days. What I can tell you now is that this is the most bizarre, grotesque and devilish case that has ever come our way.'

He patted my arm in a reassuring manner and, hearing him describe the mystery in such reassuring terms, I was indeed quite thoroughly reassured.

We went down to the hotel's reception desk where Holmes, with his usual tact and delicacy of a calculating machine, informed the gentleman in charge of the desk and a fancy bell thereon that Mr Dziewięćdziesiątkowski Quartet had disappeared for good and that it is highly unlikely they would ever be found.

Upon hearing this the man paled and simply fainted.

Having long been accustomed to my friend's unorthodox notion of tact and delicacy, I was prepared for such turn of events. After a glass of cold water applied directly to the receptionist's face and a sniff at remnants of one of Holmes's chemical experiments, which I carried in a phial labelled innocently "Smelling Salts" (I was certain it could rouse even the dead, should there be such a need), he regained consciousness and Holmes could finish his speech. He declared that he would gladly investigate this affair and strategically did not mention the fee for his services.

With this, we bade our goodbyes and returned to Baker Street in time for late lunch. After the meal, which consisted mostly of chick-pea for reason I shall explain later, my companion announced that he had some enquires to make, and left.

I busied myself with tidying my desk, watering Conan Doyle – a plant I named after my literary agent for it did not resemble him at all – and Holmes's own little potted garden of poisons and then sank into my armchair to read one of the pink-backed _Bona Sea Adventures_ novels. I must have fallen asleep because I vaguely recollect a bunch of tutu-clad pirates chasing after an enormous kipper and this house had not seen a kipper in a long time. In fact, since Mrs Hudson got a new cookery book _From Aduki Bean to Zucchini: Vegetarianism Through Ages and Alphabet_ written by some Sigerson chap. Mrs Hudson was currently reading through the letter C, hence, dear reader, our luncheon.

When I woke up it was already dark outside our windows. I noticed that Holmes's coat and hat were again back where they usually resided – strewn about the floor – and as my friend was not in the sitting room, I reasoned that he most likely had gone to bed. Wishing to ascertain this supposition, I opened slightly the door to his bedroom and there he was indeed – sleeping peacefully, cuddling his old teddy bear. He appeared to be a picture of tranquillity, so I withdrew quietly and retired to my own bedchamber.

The following morning at breakfast, Holmes decided to include me in the proceedings of the case.

'Watson, I shall need the assistance of your revolver today.'

'Your personal assistance I should, of course, value as well,' he added as I was about to remark that my revolver wasn't going to go anywhere by itself and then he cast an affectionate glance at me.

'My dear fellow, I shall be delighted.' I smiled warmly and returned his fond gaze.

'Yes, well, enough of this mush.' Holmes cleared his throat and was his masterful and practical self once more.

While we nibbled our respective toasts and sipped the tea, my friend related his cunning plan.

'At precisely quarter past two, Watson, you will leave Baker Street, travel by any means of transport you choose, providing it is a hansom cab driven by my brother Mycroft in disguise, and then materialise unobtrusively on the corner of Bloomsbury Street and Great Russell Street and wait there for me. I fancy you shall not be able to recognise me, for I'll be wearing one of my famously baffling disguises. We are going to secretly and stealthily enter the premises of the British Museum or, more precisely, its underground floor, and proceed to catch the blackguards. Now, my dear boy, I have to leave you to your own devices and make necessary preparations,' so saying he rose from the table, took his hat and coat and, turning once more to bid me a convivial goodbye, strode out.

As the hour of my departure was slowly approaching I found myself pacing restlessly the length of our sitting room floor in keen anticipation of action and adventure that were part and parcel of Holmes's life and thus, mine as well. I also think that in the process I contributed, rather significantly, to worsening the condition of our already quite worn carpet.

When the hour finally came, I stepped out onto the pavement in front of 221B to find a cab, with the elder Holmes brother at the reins, already waiting. I knew it was Mycroft although he was indeed wearing a most marvellous disguise and to recognise him would have been impossible had I not seen him in this very attire on previous occasion. True, I had seen Mycroft like this only once, but, dear reader, one is not likely to forget such an experience quickly. Now too, there was no mistaking his massive form clad in what was essentially the bathing costume my friend gave him on Mycroft's last birthday and what also happened to be quite a fetching mermaid's costume, complete with blond wig, shell-shaped brassiere and fish's tail fit for a whale.

I hastily climbed into the cab and we speedily made our way towards Bloomsbury St. When we arrived I had barely the time to step out of the vehicle when Mycroft "The Enormous Fat Mermaid" Holmes whipped the horse and dashed down the street, the March wind blowing through his blond tresses.

I walked to the corner of Great Russell St to obediently wait for my friend. In the interim, I was twice asked for cigarettes by a shabby-looking fellow and I had to eye him quite closely to make sure he was not Holmes. Then, I was flirtatiously winked at by an elderly lady who, surprisingly, was not Holmes either. Eventually the detective appeared, although I was slightly puzzled by his apparel. He looked very ordinarily.

'You did not adopt any disguise.' I prided myself, and I believe rightly so, on my ability to state the obvious.

Holmes seemed to be disappointed.

'You recognise me then? I thought that if I showed up in my own clothes and behaved normally no one should identify me.' He frowned dramatically.

'And, as always, you were correct, Holmes,' I reassured him. 'I fancy it is only I who identified you and that is only because of our long and intimate friendship.'

'Oh, in that case it's all right.' His countenance assumed the the usual expression of a somewhat irritating smirk. 'Now, let us go and execute the justice.'

And so we went.

We tiptoed across the lawn, trod on a cat and crawled alongside the building of the Museum until we found a small window of the cellar through which we sneaked inside. In front of us there was a long corridor with a dim light at the end. We crept in that direction and halted at what proved to be an entrance to some sort of chamber.

'Cock your revolver, Watson, and follow me,' Holmes breathed in my ear.

What happened later I shall remember for so long as I live, or more likely, for about four next days.

Holmes leaped artistically into the room and I would have sworn he did some elaborate pas. It was a new phase of his character to me, for I had never before seen him show any keen interest in ballet.

I myself chose more prosaic manner of entering and simply rushed in behind my friend.

The lofty chamber which greeted our eyes was littered with countless bottles. Broad, low tables were scattered about, which bristled with retorts, test-tubes and little Bunsen lamps. There was only one thin old man in the room, who was bending over a small flock of chickens, feeding them.

'Don't move a muscle, Von Hauptbahnhofausapfelstrudelallesmülleroderwas, otherwise known as The Chick Master!' cried the detective.

The old man looked at us with wild eyes and cried back, laughing evilly every second word, and his laughter was as foul as his teeth, which he demonstrated in the process. A dentist's worst nightmare and his most reliable source of income for a significant period of time rolled into one.

'Haa! You shall (haha!) never take (hahaha!) me alive (hahahaaa!)!'

He grabbed a hypodermic from the nearby table and held it in a highly threatening fashion.

'Perhaps I should just shoot him, Holmes,' I quietly suggested.

'Not yet, there'll be plenty of opportunities for that later.'

At that moment Von Hauptbahnhofausapfelstrudelallesmülleroderwas decided to put the syringe to use and very efficiently stabbed himself with it.

'No, you scoundrel!' cried Holmes and rushed to the old man's side but, alas, it was too late. The tiny piston was pushed down and whatever substance had been in the glass cylinder was now in the man's bloodstream.

The very moment I made this observation, the most extraordinary thing happened. Before our eyes, the human shrieked, shrivelled, shrank and turned into a senile specimen of fowl, which next tried to make its escape.

'Not so fast!' and Holmes made, second that day, artistic leap and seized the creature in his strong hands.

'Watson, give me that cloth, which I observe hanging by this window,' he ordered and having received the curtain, proceeded to wrap it around the bird.

Then he sighed with satisfaction. 'Now the prisoner is under control, so during our walk to Scotland Yard where he shall be put behind bars, where he belongs, I'll be able to tell you the whole baffling story the end of which you've just witnessed.

'You must know, Watson, that Von Hauptbahnhofausapfelstrudelallesmülleroderwas, also known as The Chick Master - the epitome of bad taste as far as the puns are concerned, if you ask me – was mad, bad and generally dangerous to know. And typically enough he wanted to rule the world. I shall never understand this desire, Watson. Surely there must be more interesting things to do with one's free time. But anyway, his cunning scheming mind invented a substance, which, when injected, caused effects similar to chickenpox, but which ultimately turned people into chickens. Quite an original idea, it has to be admitted.

'When yesterday I examined that hotel room, I could tell at once that: a) there was someone else in there, apart from the musicians and the hotel staff, b) this someone was a small old man – I could tell it from several clues, although the most conclusive were the muddy footprints all over the carpet, which you, Watson, dismissed as part of the carpet's ornamentation...'

At this point I thought it better not to mention that it indeed was ornamentation. I was absolutely convinced about this fact, for which I specifically asked the pretty, helpful and very obliging Ivy.

'... c) a syringe was in use,' Holmes continued. 'This was actually the easiest to ascertain for, as you know, I am quite well acquainted with the instrument myself. And d) as a result, Mr Dziewięćdziesiątkowski Quartet vanished and in their place we found a quartet of chickens. All these facts could only lead to one conclusion. Can you imagine, Watson, what would happen had this devil succeeded in carrying out his plan?'

Indeed I could. The world full of birds and a solitary man cackling insanely in the middle of it. I had always been of the opinion that mad scientists were very odd species.

While I pondered this vision, we reached the Scotland Yard headquarters. Holmes at once headed for Lestrade's office and entered without knocking. This habit had already earned him several severe reprimands from the Inspector, who no longer could snore, pick his nose or mull over the crossword in _The Illustrated Police News_ in absolute peace, but apparently Holmes did not bother to listen to him.

My companion surveyed the little room with his keen glance and it did not take long for him to determine that Lestrade was not in. It really took mere two hours, during which he gawked at the ceiling, curiously spotted with a multitude of black dots. Then he came out of his reverie and said,

'You know, Watson, if you connect these dots the picture of da Vinci's Mona Lisa will appear. Or a pony,' he added thoughtfully.

The Inspector could not have hidden in this room either: the desk drawers were too small, the filing cabinet - closed, and a large and thriving cactus – definitely genuine.

Lestrade's absence was, however, not wholly unexpected for he recently devoted every spare minute to his new hobby, that is, rehearsing with Scotland Yard's very own gospel choir. One would not know it, or even suspect, but in fact, many members of London's police force had lovely singing voices, doubtless trained by bellowing at drunkards, street urchins and other undesirable specimens of our great city.

With Inspector gone, Holmes and I left the transformed Von Hauptbahnhofausapfelstrudelallesmülleroderwas in the tender custody of constable Joyce. I think it is possible that he did not quite believe our words. Something in his stance and attitude towards us told me that he thought Holmes a loony and me an alienist who spent too much time in the company of his more delusional patients. Of course, the constable did not voice his notions, thereby depriving me of the opportunity to smack him with the copy of Lancet, which I sometimes carried for just such occasions.

After Holmes forced constable Joyce to promise to lock The Chick Master in a cell and hand him over to Lestrade as soon as he is back, we turned our steps home.

About two weeks later we found that Lestrade, having received the criminal mastermind in the shape of chicken, took him home where that once formidable evil genius was transformed once more. This time, into and excellent, as we were told, dinner prepared by the Inspector's housekeeper.

'Well my dear friend, I cannot say that it is likely to weigh very heavily upon my conscience,' said Sherlock Holmes as he languidly stretched upon the sofa and lazily began to make origami zoo from The Strand's pages.


End file.
